


Setting boundaries without limitations

by mischievous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-17
Updated: 2012-04-17
Packaged: 2017-11-03 20:25:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mischievous/pseuds/mischievous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The third time Sherlock drugs John in the name of science, John finally snaps. (Set post-Hounds, because it's mentioned, but not in enough detail to really be considered spoilery; pre-s2 finale.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Setting boundaries without limitations

The third time Sherlock drugs John in the name of science, John finally snaps. He doesn't really remember what he says as he storms out of the flat they share in Baker Street and steps out into the rain, his head pounding from the after-effects of whatever hallucinogen Sherlock used this time, as angry at his friend as he can ever remember being. He goes to Sarah's because she's finally speaking to him again, sits on her couch and lets her make him a cup of tea as he rants about _boundaries_ and _broken trust_ and anything else that comes to mind. He's tired from the lingering effects of the drug, from the panic it instilled in him and the flashbacks and nightmares that he suffered through last night. Sarah is obligingly and comfortingly furious on his behalf, but when she launches into her own rant about how unsafe it is for him to continue working and living with Sherlock, and about how he should really move out and move on with his life, he calms down and starts to think.

He gets so caught up in his thoughts that he fails to realise that Sarah is still talking to him, his brain racing as he processes everything he knows about Sherlock and their friendship. When he realises that she's shaking his arm to get his attention, concern in her eyes, he also realises that what he's doing right now is what Sherlock does to him: zoned out into his own little thinky-thoughty world, he's forgotten that there's someone in the room with him, and that gets him to thinking even more.

This may be the third time that Sherlock has drugged John, but after the first and second times John never actually sat down with him and explained why he shouldn't do it again. Fighting with Sherlock is something John doesn't really have the energy for, and the previous times he'd let it go in favour of returning their friendship to a state of _okay_ again. The war left its mark on him in the form of nightmares and pain, psychosomatic and otherwise, and sometimes it's difficult enough just to get up and face the day. Keeping up with Sherlock and his whirlwind brain is hard for him; he's not stupid but his brain doesn't work the way Sherlock's does, and following Sherlock's deductions when he really wants nothing more than to curl up in bed and sleep is exhausting. So, yes, he thinks he's allowed to be angry that Sherlock used him as a subject for his experimentation, but he also knows that it's partly his own fault that it's happened more than once. Sherlock isn't like most people John knows, he doesn't process things like most people John knows, and it's John's responsibility as his friend to tell him when he's doing something that's unacceptable for their friendship, because if he doesn't tell Sherlock, then Sherlock is within his rights to assume that John doesn't really mind.

(Or something like that, he's not sure. He's _not sure_ through a lot of their friendship, really.)

He sighs and thanks Sarah for her hospitality, ignoring the incredulous outburst he gets when he says he's going home, gives her a hug and heads back out into the still-falling rain. She thinks he's crazy for going back, he can tell, but she doesn't know Sherlock like he does (which feels like not a lot sometimes and quite well at others), and she doesn't want to admit that John has a point when he says it's as much his fault as Sherlock's that this has happened to him again. He walks home because he needs time to think about what he's going to say, even though he's no closer to figuring that out by the time he slides his key into the front door, lets himself in and heads upstairs. Mrs Hudson tries to stop him for a chat but he politely dissuades her, her words fading away as he climbs the stairs and leaves her behind.

The flat looks as if a hurricane has torn through it. There are fresh bullet holes in the wall and papers scattered everywhere. A cup lies shattered into pieces on the floor, milky-pale liquid attesting to the fact that Mrs Hudson probably tried to offer Sherlock a cup of tea at some point and it didn’t end well. Sherlock himself is sitting on the couch, perched on the edge with his knees drawn up in front of him, arms wrapped around them and a blanket wrapped so tightly around himself that John’s surprised he can even breath. He’s so still he could be a statue and John lets him be as he shucks his coat and moves into the kitchen to put the kettle on, checking it carefully before he does. He’s long since instigated a rule that the kettle is not to be used for experiments (he doesn’t want any body parts interfering with his ability to make a cup of tea, thank you very much) and Sherlock has abided by it, which makes him think about last night again and the _don’t drug me, please Sherlock_ rule he should have instigated long ago and didn’t.

The kitchen is more of a mess than usual but not quite as bad as the living room, attesting to the fact that most of Sherlock’s melt-down took place in there instead of here. He retrieves two mugs from the cupboard, makes tea for them both and carries the cups into the living room. Sherlock hasn’t moved and John can’t decide if Sherlock has realised he’s back or not. Some part of him probably has, he figures, because Sherlock is almost always paying attention even when John thinks he isn’t. So he sets Sherlock’s tea down on the table in front of them, and sits on the other half of the couch with his own. He’s tempted to turn the television on to pass the time, but that sometimes agitates Sherlock and sometimes doesn’t, and he’s not sure which way it’ll be today so he leaves it off to be on the safe side and settles in to wait.

He’s nearly finished his tea when Sherlock says, “You’re back,” and it’s hard to tell if he’s surprised, relieved, just stating a fact, or any combination of the three.

“Yes,” he says, because he doesn’t know how else to begin.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything more and they sit in silence for another half an hour, long enough for John to have finished what’s left of his tea and spend a while contemplating drinking Sherlock’s, even though it’s bound to be cold by now. Finally Sherlock glances sideways at him, a quick flick of his eyes, before looking away again, but he seems somehow more _there_ in that moment than he did before.

“You went to Sarah’s,” Sherlock says. “How very predictable of you.”

“Not a lot of places I can go,” John says mildly. “So yes, I went to Sarah’s.”

“I’m sure she was very sympathetic,” Sherlock sneers. “Did you tell her how your horrible, inhuman flatmate drugged you against your will? Was she moved to comfort you before she sent you back here to deal with the psychopath?”

The flash of anger he feels is immediate, but John fights it back. He isn’t here to argue with Sherlock, no matter what Sherlock might say to provoke him. Their friendship is not conventional, it’s true, but it _is_ a friendship. John cares about Sherlock and he knows that Sherlock, in his own way, cares about him too.

“I told her about how my _friend_ crossed a line whether he did it knowingly or not,” he says evenly. “Sherlock, I need you to promise that you won’t drug me again. I know your experiments are important to you and I know you’ve done it before and I’ve let it go, but I don’t want it happening again.” Sherlock doesn’t say anything but John thinks that he’s listening. “I don’t want to have to suspect there’s something afoot every time you offer me a cup of tea or we go out to eat. I don’t need the nightmares the drugs bring on, those are bad enough on their own thank you, and I don’t like thinking that I can’t trust you.”

Sherlock glances at him again and away, but his posture seems less rigid which John is choosing to take as a good sign.

“I didn’t think you’d mind,” Sherlock says finally. “It was for the work.”

“You knew I wouldn’t be happy about it,” John says firmly. “I wasn’t happy about it the last two times either. It makes me angry at you and I know you know that.”

“I didn’t mean to make your nightmares worse,” Sherlock says and it’s as close to an apologetic tone as John ever hears from him. “I don’t want you to stop trusting me.”

“I won’t,” John says. “We’re friends, Sherlock, and friends trust each other. But I need you to promise you won’t drug me again, and I need you to stick to it.”

Sherlock is quiet for a few minutes, but he loosens his blanket-cocoon enough that he can reach over and pick up his now-cold tea from the table. He takes a sip. John waits.

“I didn’t think you were going to come back this time,” Sherlock says, so softly that John almost doesn’t hear it. After a beat, at a more normal volume, he adds, “I promise I won’t drug you again. Unless you agree to it.”

The thing is, John thinks, if Sherlock _asked_ if he could drug him as part of an experiment (within controlled, safe conditions), he might be tempted to agree to it. He can’t think of a situation right now where he would, but he knows better than to say never when it comes to Sherlock Holmes. This is not the easiest friendship he’s ever had, but it’s worth more than most.

“Thank you,” John says, and holds out his hand for Sherlock’s cup. “Now give me that cup so I can make you some tea that isn’t cold, and then we need to tidy up a little bit of this mess. Mrs Hudson’s probably upset enough by the new bullet holes in her walls without adding the rest of it into the mix.”

“Boring,” Sherlock says, but he hands over his still full cup to John willingly enough. “How do you know there’s new bullet holes?”

“The gun’s been fired recently, I can smell it in the air,” John shrugs, rising to his feet. “And there used to be six bullet holes and now there’s four more.” He points to the two highest ones, then the one furthest to the right, and then the middle. “We’re not going to have any wall left if you’re not careful,” he chides, but gently. He’s instigated one boundary for Sherlock today. Asking for him to stop shooting the walls at the same time is probably pushing his luck.

(That said, he’s putting it on his mental to-do list for not too far in the future.)

Sherlock’s eyes brighten. He always likes it when John proves his ability to notice things.

By the time John’s refilled the kettle and set it to boil, Sherlock is behind him, blanket left abandoned on the couch. John manages not to jump when he realises Sherlock’s there; Sherlock’s somewhat cat-like ability to move quietly has probably shaved a few years off his life already. He turns his head to glance at Sherlock, who’s currently ignoring the concept of personal space, his grey eyes inches from John’s and the warmth of his body ghosting over John’s skin.

“We could watch one of those terrible shows you like, if you want to?” Sherlock says, and John knows that he’s making an effort. That Sherlock does, in fact, make an effort with him at least eighty percent of the time.

“Sure,” he agrees easily. “Or we could go out and eat. I’m in the mood for chinese.”

Soon Lestrade will call with another case and Sherlock will forget about eating and sleeping in favour of devoting his brain power to catching a killer, which is why John likes to try and squeeze in as many meals as possible between cases. It makes him less worried that Sherlock's going to pass out from malnutrition mid-deduction.

They had chinese last night, too. But this is John’s way of telling Sherlock that he trusts him to keep his promise. The words don’t mean as much as the actions, sometimes, and he doesn’t want there to be any lingering mistrust between them. They still have things to deal with and there are apologies that should really be made -- John never intended to hurt Sherlock the way he suspects he did with the words that he said earlier, he owes Sherlock an apology for that which will come in time -- but they have to start somewhere.

Sherlock smiles then and accepts the fresh cup of tea John hands him. He heads back to the couch as he begins a tirade about Lestrade that John only half listens to, more caught up in watching Sherlock’s animated movements as he talks than the words he’s saying.

What Sarah doesn’t understand about their friendship is that it’s been a learning experience for them both. John isn’t the same person he was before he went away to war and witnessed things he could’ve lived without. Those experiences _changed_ him. Nearly dying changed him. His old friendships are strained by the person he became there, and Sherlock doesn’t really have any other friendships to compare theirs too. So it’s bound to be a little bit of a rocky road, this progression of theirs, but John knows that it’s worth it. Getting to know Sherlock has been worth the difficulties, he just needs to remember to lay down clear boundaries when it comes to the things that he considers unacceptable. His friendship with Sherlock has changed him, it’s true, but their friendship is changing Sherlock too.

“John,” Sherlock says, and now he’s frowning when John looks over at him. “You aren’t listening to me.”

John smiles.

“I’m always listening, Sherlock,” he says, and it’s a promise not a fact, as he takes a seat next to Sherlock and encourages him to begin again.


End file.
